I'll Meet You in the Bathroom in Five
by TrinityWildcat
Summary: In which Sienna visits New York, Bobby gets reminded why it's a good idea to keep a close eye on incriminating evidence, and Alex does a little private detecting. Alex's point of view. Sequel to 'Army Fatigues' and 'Primitive Male'.
1. Conferences and Coffee

Alex Eames looked across her desk at her partner, and sighed. He was doing it again.

"Earth to Bobby Goren?"

"Huh?" Her partner returned from whatever planet he'd been occupying and gazed vaguely in her direction. That was the third time he'd done that that day, and she was starting to get concerned.

"You wanted me to remind you that that conference upstairs you're going to starts at midday? Half an hour to go."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks." He returned his attention to the papers in front of him. She would have sworn he'd been looking at them for the past half hour without seeing them. Yet more un-Goren like behaviour. But then, Bobby had been acting weird for the past week or so, and she was still trying to puzzle out why. Admittedly, it wasn't _major_ weird - he was in work at his usual time, they were working together on their new case as efficiently as they usually did, he didn't seem ill or unhappy about anything… just distracted.

Possibly someone who didn't know him as well as she did wouldn't have noticed, but every so often, he seemed to be temporarily mentally absent for a few minutes, then he'd shake his head and return to whatever he was doing. For most people, this wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary, but for Bobby Goren, who would probably have done his job for free if the city didn't pay him for it anyway, it was unusual bordering on alarming.

It was odd, she thought, rubbing her arm absent-mindedly and running her mind back over the events of the last four weeks, trying to puzzle out what had started it. Four weeks ago, Bobby had returned from the Shorokogat surveillance operation with a very interesting tale to tell. The official story, of course, was that he and the others involved had simply gone up there to carry out the operation, been frustrated by the bad weather, and then found out that their target had drowned during the freak storm that had prevented their listening in.

The unofficial story, as related to her by Bobby over take-out at his apartment one evening shortly afterwards, was a lot more interesting; wrecked planes, rescue missions and rogue CIA agents, oh my. She still suspected he wasn't telling her the whole story, but accepted that there were probably some parts of it he'd been forbidden to tell anyone.

Since then, he'd been apparently back to his normal self, if somewhat grouchy the first day or two back, probably due to sore muscles following the cliff rescue he'd been involved with, she supposed. Then, two weeks ago, they'd gotten news that there was talk of creating a new Interpol division in New York to tackle criminal organisations operating in the US who originated in the old Soviet bloc; essentially, the Russian and Eastern European mafias. Very politically sensitive due to the current security climate, and they were looking specifically for individuals with some understanding of the culture of the countries of origin. She knew a few NYPD cops who were considering applying.

The point of the conference Bobby was going to that afternoon was to try to identify possible cultural barriers and sensitive issues that anyone involved in the division's work would need to be aware of to work effectively. They'd originally both been invited along to discuss the experiences he and she had had working the original Shorokogat case in New York - when it had been simply an investigation into an illegal abortion ring among immigrants - as part of the setting-up process for the new division. The conference was being held at One Police Plaza, partly because it was expected that quite a few of the new division's personnel would be NYPD on secondment, but partly, she suspected, because everyone knew that the catering staff there did better coffee than almost anywhere else in a five-mile radius. Cops, even (perhaps _especially_) senior cops in suits with offices, took their coffee seriously.

It hadn't been too difficult for them to persuade Deakins that he could really only spare one of them from their current case; the phrase "there's no reason why BOTH of us should be bored to tears sitting in a meeting where we'll speak for about one hour then listen to others being self-important" hanging unspoken between them. Bobby had volunteered on the grounds that she'd suffered enough due to this investigation (true: her broken arm had healed completely, but that had been a frustrating few weeks off work, not much consolation in the fact that Shorokogat's bodyguard was awaiting trial for assault on a police officer), and in any case, he knew two of the Interpol personnel who would be at the meeting from the surveillance operation.

Eames was jolted out of her reverie by the phone on Bobby's desk ringing. He picked it up; she followed the conversation with half an ear, noticing that he sounded unusually annoyed, even agitated. He put the phone down and sprang up from his desk with a faintly worried expression. "Eames; I'm going downstairs. Morelli needs to speak to me about that case he's working…"

"The one last week where we found that homeless guy living in the piano? You want me to go?"

"No, needs to be me, it's about some papers they found with the guy, they're in German, he says… can you tell anyone who asks, I'll be back in ten minutes?"

"Sure." She watched with a perplexed expression as he practically sprinted out of the bullpen. It was almost as though he was worried about the conference, which was unlikely. Public speaking wasn't something either of them did on a regular basis, but for someone with Bobby's intelligence, confidence and acting ability, it was hardly something he needed to worry about. She'd read the notes he'd prepared; they sounded fine. If he was only going downstairs for a few minutes, he didn't need to worry about being late… maybe he was worried about meeting the other people from the surveillance op again?

That was the only explanation she could think of, but it raised a few questions of its own. Why would he be worried? It sounded as though the three of them - Bobby, Whitefield and Tovitz - had all gotten along fine, and they'd come through the op with barely a few scratches and some bruises. Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in the bits of Smith's actual arrest and its aftermath that Bobby had covered over with a few glib sentences. If so, she was unlikely ever to find out the whole truth. That bugged her. Alex Eames was not a woman to willingly let a mystery go unsolved.

She finished reviewing the profiles of possible suspects for the latest cases, and glanced up at the clock. Bobby had been gone longer than he'd intended; he'd probably just go straight upstairs to the conference. She stood up from her desk, stretched, and headed over to the door herself, intending to grab a coffee from the machine and spend another hour on the case, then go get some lunch.

As she made her way out into the corridor, she was absent-mindedly wondering whether to be health-conscious and go for decaff, or be realistic and go for something which might actually have seen a coffee bean at some point in its existence, when someone caught her arm, causing her to jump. She turned quickly, and found herself face to face with a besuited young woman with bright red hair and a slightly harried expression.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Detective Goren - do you know him?"


	2. Lost Papers and Decaff

Eames paused, and sized up the woman in front of her. Bright red hair, green eyes, pleasant face with freckles, flatteringly cut silver-grey suit with white blouse, pantyhose and heels, interesting antique silver earrings, light perfume, binder of papers, harried expression and air of needing to be somewhere else fast. Interesting accent, too - English was obviously her native tongue, but Eames thought the accent sounded vaguely familiar. One part Midwestern, one part… ah, that was it. One part Russian, if Eames' memory of the people they'd interviewed on the Shorokogat case was correct. Probably someone going to the conference upstairs who'd got off at the wrong floor? But no, she'd said she was looking for Bobby…

"…it's just, they're changing the running order of the conference and I need to speak to him before it starts if that's possible."

"Right. He got called downstairs, but he said he wouldn't be long… he'll probably just go straight up there."

"Okay… perhaps if I go up there and wait for him, you could pass on the message? It's just that one of the other speakers isn't here yet, so they're moving the agenda forwards - I'm on first, then he is."

"Not a problem, I'll pass that on."

The young woman smiled, a genuinely warm smile revealing white teeth. "Thanks. If you'll excuse me…" She smiled, turned, and trotted off hurriedly in the direction of the elevators. Eames, watching her go, thought she looked a little unsteady, perhaps not too used to wearing heels? She wondered with a private snigger whether she should call the young woman back and provide her with a warning about the consequences of falling for the Goren brand of charm, since she had no doubt that her partner wouldn't leave the conference without getting a phone number, at least. She suddenly realised she'd forgotten to get the woman's name, and called out to her, but the elevator doors had already closed. She strolled over to the vending machine and, feeling virtuous, selected the decaff. Just then the elevator doors re-opened and a familiar tall figure emerged.

"Bobby? Over here." She relayed the message, adding a description of the woman in question. He seemed to know who it was, nodded his thanks, dove back into the office, retrieved his notes for the conference, and then hurried out, waving a fast goodbye. Interesting. Ah well, back to the desk.

Several hours later, as the office slowly emptied for the weekend, she was discussing the progress she'd made on the case over the course of the afternoon with Captain Deakins. She was also simultaneously wondering whether to accept an invite for girls-only drinks that night from Sergeant Rosie Alvarez, an old acquaintance from her days with the Vice squad, when her partner finally returned. He looked a lot less distracted, and a lot more relaxed. Perhaps he _had _been worried about giving that speech. They spent an hour going over the case and catching up, then Bobby looked at the clock and began gathering his things. He looked around, and frowned with annoyance and concern.

"What's up?"

"Nothing… have you seen a couple of sheets of paper with handwriting on them?"

She resisted the urge to make a flip comment along the lines of _Oh, just a couple of dozen today_, and shook her head. "You lost something?"

"I hope not…" He continued looking. "I was sure I'd put them somewhere safe." He actually looked worried.

"Did you have them with you earlier?"

"Yeah." He was bending at the waist and rooting through the drawers of his desk.

"Well, they've got to be here somewhere - you haven't been away from the desk apart from the conference all day."

"True." He kept looking, then glanced at the clock again. She took pity. "Two sheets of paper with handwriting - is it your handwriting?"

"Some of it."

"Well, I'm sure I'll recognise them. I'll look for them myself if you need to get going. What do they look like?"

"You're sure? Thanks, Eames. It's two sheets of paper, one of them's got my handwriting on - the writing's in German." He looked extremely relieved. She wondered exactly what was special about the papers, maybe it was something to do with Morelli's case? The media had been all over the case of the amnesiac man found sleeping under a piano in a bar at night; perhaps Morelli & Goren had found out something about him?

"Is it to do with Morelli's case?"

"Ummm…. He's got some papers from an interrogation we did that he needs translated." 

"Is that why he gave them to you?"

"Yeah... yeah, that's right."

"You got plans for the weekend?" she asked, beginning to go through through the papers all over their desks and stack them away.

"Uh, yeah…" His voice trailed off, either losing his train of thought or being so fascinated by it he'd forgotten he was speaking. "Umm… see you next week." And, for the second time that day, he practically sprinted out of the office. Deakins had wandered across to her desk to say good evening, and they stared after Bobby in silence.

"Is it me, or has he been acting weird lately?" she asked.

Deakins made the inevitable reply. "More weird than usual? Yes. I'm surprised he asked for leave next week."

Yes, that had been a surprise to her too. Bobby usually took some time off in summer to catch up with his old friends and travel a little, but, being a single man with few relations, almost never asked for time off at short notice. It had been a surprise to both herself and Deakins when he'd said he wanted to take some leave for the first part of the week immediately following the conference. They could afford it - the case they were working was important, but they'd put in some extra hours and pretty much everything was wrapped up - but it was a little out of character.

"I'm not sure whether to be worried that he needs the time off, or take it as a good sign that he recognises he needs it," she mused out loud.

Deakins shrugged, and smiled at her. "With him, who knows? Have yourself a good weekend." He left the office, no doubt already looking forward to two days away from the office with his family.

Eames watched him go, and thought about her plans for the evening. She was going to visit her family for the day tomorrow, and she'd been busy all week with no time for housework or anything but the case they were working on. She should really go home and tidy up, perhaps even hit the gym for half an hour first, then maybe use up the leftover salad and cold chicken in the fridge... _The heck with it_. She picked up the phone, and called Alvarez to accept the drinks invitation.

As she was replacing the receiver, she knocked a file off the desk. Crouching down to pick it up, she noticed two sheets of handwritten notes in a plastic wallet stuck in at the back, hidden behind some papers she'd seen Bobby reading earlier. He'd obviously picked them up in a bundle and not noticed the extra sheets when he put the papers back in the file. She glanced over the notes. Yes, they were obviously the right ones. Two sheets of paper, all four sides covered in handwriting. Interestingly enough, one page of notes was unmistakably Bobby's, but the handwriting on the other page - neat, looping - she did not recognise at all. Possibly Morelli's? No, he didn't speak German, obviously, or why would he have asked Bobby to get the papers translated for him? Perhaps he'd asked Bobby to interrogate the homeless man, or someone who claimed to know him, and this was the transcript or something. Intriguing. 

It occurred to her that she could do Bobby and Morelli a favour. The bar she and Alvarez favoured for their little catch-up sessions was just round the corner from Dr Fritz Hoffman's home. Hoffman was yet another of Bobby's useful acquaintances; a retired German pathologist, whom the NYPD occasionally retained as a translator. She could drop this off with him and get it translated for Bobby to give to Morelli when he got back from leave, so he didn't have to do the translation himself on his first day back. 

Quickly, she went over to the copier and ran off two copies, in case Hoffman needed them to write on whilst he was translating. Feeling fully justified in accepting Alvarez's invite, she donned her coat, applied a little lipstick, tucked all the papers in their folder carefully into her purse and departed.


	3. Friendship and Zinfandel

Three hours and more than half of a bottle of Zinfandel later, Eames remembered the papers in her purse midway through Alvarez's story about the man with the inflatable doll, and thought _Whoops!_ She glanced out through the bar's window at the evening scene outside, and saw with relief that Hoffman's windows were still lit. She knew he kept odd hours since his retirement, having once cheerfully announced to herself and Bobby that one of the many joys of retirement was never having to worry about what time it was: "I do what I like, when I like, and if that's drinking whisky whilst staying up with Marta to watch the complete works of Hitchcock until three in the morning, so be it!"

She smiled affectionately at the memory. Hoffman liked to play the eccentric academic (she'd wondered more than once if he was a vision of what Bobby might turn into twenty years down the line), but his brain was still as sharp as ever, and he was plainly devoted to his wife, Marta, whom he'd met in England before they emigrated to the States. She waited for Alvarez to finish her story; she'd seen her friend yawn a few times, and guessed that they were on course for Rosie to suddenly remember that she had a family waiting back home, and depart in time to say goodnight to the kids and spend a few hours with her long-suffering husband.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside the elevator to Hoffman's apartment, quietly debating whether or not to interrupt his evening, when the door suddenly opened and Hoffman himself stepped out, clad in what were obviously his lounging-around-inside-on-a-weekend-evening clothes; old chinos and a sports jersey that had probably been a present from his grandchildren. "My dear Detective Eames! Do come up, what a pleasant surprise."

She was a little surprised at this, but as she followed him into his apartment, she noticed that the window overlooked the bar she and Alvarez had been drinking in, and that the chair near it showed signs of recent occupancy; a whisky glass and paperback novel. She'd asked after his wife on the journey up; Marta was well, and visiting friends in Boston. She had the impression, from the empty takeout containers glimpsed in the kitchen and the general air of bachelorhood in the apartment, that Hoffman was rather enjoying a few days on his own.

"Would you like a drink?" Hoffman asked, indicating the bottle he'd been drinking from. She recognised it as an expensive blend; Hoffman's book royalties earned him and his wife a comfortable retirement. She shook her head, and smiled a polite refusal. "I have some very nice fruit juice in the fridge – do you have a preference?" They settled on orange and cranberry for her, and a little more whisky for him, and Hoffman pulled up a chair by the window. "Now, my dear, what brings you to my apartment door on a Friday evening? A social visit, or is there a professional motive behind it?"

"Well… both. It's good to see you again." She wasn't exaggerating. The first time she'd met him in Bobby's company, she'd been struck by how much more relaxed her partner seemed around Hoffman, getting the impression that he was one of the few people Bobby felt comfortable being himself around. She, too, had warmed to the man's combination of good humour, eccentricity and sharp mind. Given Hoffman's age and half-Jewish family history, he had undoubtedly had some extremely bad experiences in his life, quite apart from his career as a pathologist, but she'd read some of his books and been struck by the compassion and determination behind the careful scientific phrasing. It was good to be reminded that a career in law enforcement didn't have to land one with an irredeemably cynical view of human nature.

"And how is your partner, Robert?"

"Very well… well, actually…" and she found herself describing Bobby's weird behaviour recently. Hoffman raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment. "But also, I need these translating." She handed him the copies, and explained the situation. He scanned the first pages briefly, and raised his eyebrows. "Hmm… this is interesting."

"What is?" she felt compelled to ask.

"I recognise your partner's handwriting and phrasing here, but the other correspondent is female. This is a conversation in writing, my dear; one sentence on this page is followed by a reply on the other, and so it continues down the page."

Oh? That was interesting. She suddenly wondered if these papers really were related to Morelli's 'Piano Man' case. But Bobby had said they needed translating… perhaps Morelli had asked him to interview someone he'd asked in for an opinion? _Why would they be writing that down_? she mused, then suddenly found herself stifling a yawn as a long week and several glasses of Zinfandel combined to make her realise how tired she was. Hoffman smiled amusedly, but politely made no comment.

"So, my dear, you would like these translating. I can do that for you over the weekend." He waved a hand to cut off her objection that it wasn't that urgent. "Remember, I'm retired. My weekends can be whenever I want them to be; Monday to Thursday, if I so choose. I will be quite happy to do this, if for no other reason than it means I will have a good excuse for Marta when she gets back as to why I haven't gotten round to clearing up and doing the laundry yet." He smiled again. "In return, may I ask you a favour with regard to my payment?"

She was about to say _The usual rates, of course_, but let him continue. "I don't particularly require money at present, but do you think that you could do me a small favour?"

"Of course."

"Marta happens to be particularly fond of a type of cake – German raspberry tart, I'll give you a full description later – which our local bakery used to sell to us every week. Unfortunately, that bakery has now become a Subway. She looks so disappointed every Saturday morning, it used to be a little ritual of ours, to go down there and eat it with a cup of coffee and read the newspapers, just like we used to in Cambridge, whilst we were courting… do you think you could find some nice keen young officers who might be willing to go forth and hunt out a replacement?"

"You want me to find you a _cake_?" An unusual request, but hardly beyond the resources of Major Case. She had no doubt Alvarez knew a few rookie cops who'd be willing to help out in the hope of earning some brownie points (as it were), and hunting cake would probably be a nice change for them from hunting perps. "Not a problem."

"Very well, my dear, I shall have the translation ready for you very shortly. Now, allow me to call you a taxi and find a description of the cake in question."


	4. Revelations and Chardonnay

The evening of the following Saturday, Eames returned home from visiting her family to find a neat brown envelope on her doormat with Hoffman's writing on. _He must have spent the whole day translating it_, she mused. But then, given that German was Hoffman's native tongue, it probably hadn't been so long or difficult a job for him. She locked up and set the papers down on the small dining table in her apartment, then went into the kitchen. A quick scour of the fridge indicated that improvised chicken salad was on the menu for tonight, and a visit to the grocery store on the agenda for tomorrow. Rooting around, she came across a half-open bottle of Chardonnay near the back of the fridge, which she'd forgotten about. Five minutes later, she took the salad plus Chardonnay (it needed using up) through into the living room, and settled down at the table to read Hoffman's notes.

They consisted of, firstly, a neat introductory page headed 'Translator's Commentary', a transcript of what the papers said followed by a set of footnotes and another sheet labelled 'Translator's Commentary - Concluding Remarks', followed by the copies she'd given him with his own scribblings on at the back. She flipped through the footnotes quickly, and was surprised to see that he'd included two sketches as part of them. They weren't bad, but they were puzzling. One depicted Hoffman's face with raised eyebrows and an amused expression, and the other depicted him with his eyes out on stalks, Warner Bros cartoon-style. Interesting.

The 'Translator's Commentary' began as follows:

"Detective Eames,

It is probably as well that we agreed on an unofficial retainer for this assignment, since, as you will find, this is, almost certainly, not related to the case you described to me. (Did your partner hand these to you by mistake, or were you being curious, my dear? You know what curiosity did to the cat.)"

_Yes_, she thought. _It made a virtue out of a vice, joined the NYPD, worked hard and was promoted to Major Case_. Bobby had said that Morelli needed papers translating… but, she realised, he hadn't actually said that the papers he was looking for _were_ those particular papers. That _had _been a very evasive reply he'd given her… interesting and more interesting. She continued reading.

"However, once I had started translating and gotten more than halfway through, I decided to complete the translation, as you may well find it of interest in solving one particular mystery which you mentioned to me in our discussion earlier. The translation follows; footnotes at the back. I look forward to finding out if you have had any luck with the cake.

Regards,

Fritz Hoffman."

Even more interesting. She turned the page and read Hoffman's introductory notes, in which he said that Bobby's writing had been labelled as such with 'B', and the other writer's as 'F' (for 'female'). It also contained a proviso: "Please note that this is my translation and interpretation, since of necessity a translator must use a little license when translating from one language to another, especially when translating colloquialisms. I would also note that both correspondents' grasp of German grammar and syntax is fluent, but the vocabulary used, especially one or two nouns, is slightly limited. In places the female writer has used English nouns in place of the German. I conclude from this that she is reasonably fluent, but does not speak or write German regularly." She then began reading the translation.

_F: We've got to stop meeting like this._

B: I agree.

F: Hope you haven't got anything urgent to get back to. Once Tim starts talking he can keep going for some time.

B: Eames is taking care of the case we're working on.

F: Is she blond, a little shorter than me and wearing a red short-sleeved top? I think I met her outside your office today.

B: That's her.

Ah, that was interesting. Eames suddenly realised that this must be the woman she'd met outside the elevator earlier that day. One of the other conference speakers? Her brain made the connection; the two of them obviously knew each other, and the only female on the surveillance operation had been Sienna Tovitz, the Interpol translator. This must be her, and their meeting must have been very dull indeed. How did she know that Bobby knew German? Perhaps they'd had chance to talk during the surveillance op.

Well, Hoffman was obviously right, these weren't the papers Morelli had given Goren as part of his investigation. Still, Hoffman's notes seemed to suggest that they might shed some light on why Bobby had been acting so strangely recently. She already had a fair idea of why that might be... She read on, to see if her suspicions were justified.

_F: It's interesting to see you in a suit. I feel like I'm meeting Detective Goren for the first time, cuffs, gun, badge, notebook, cuffs and all._

B: You mentioned cuffs twice there. And it's pleasant to see YOU in a suit too.

F: Did I? Oops. And thanks.

B: Good flight over?

F: Not too bad. Think my speech went well?

B: Very fluent and you made some good points about the need to gather 'soft' intelligence. Your speaking voice is fine, but you need to pause at the end of your sentences more, and don't be afraid to take up space when you're speaking.

F: Thanks for the advice. Yours went well.

B: Thanks. Heard any more about our mutual acquaintance?

F: Throwing the book at him - everything from murder to treason. It's going to drag on for some time, but Tim's lobbying for as fast a trial as they can manage. As for the other two… his arm healed and he's also facing charges, but not the death penalty or a life sentence. If he co-operates he may get a reduced sentence, which I guess is fair. Our British friend is back in the UK. I may yet end up working with him if this new division goes according to plan. London's a major trafficking route for these organisations.

B: Thanks for the update. You look very thoughtful.

F: That's my expression for 'oh help, oh help, my brain is dying from the overwhelming boredom'.

B: Heh. Got somewhere to stay tonight?

F: Yes… an old friend who lives here. I've stayed with her a couple of times when I've been over here; I have a spare key to her flat. We keep meaning to see the sights, but all I ever seem to see is the inside of offices!

B: Did you manage to get leave?

F: Yes, no problem. I'm here until Wednesday morning, my flight back leaves at eight am.

B: Does she expect you to stay with her?

F: We have an arrangement that we can come and go as we please when we stay with each other. She couldn't get leave herself, but she kind of told me to get out there and see the city and enjoy myself.

B: Good. You're still looking thoughtful, and something tells me you're not as bored as you seem.

F: Oh really? The same back at you.

B: What are you thinking about? 

Eames took another sip of her wine, read the reply and suddenly discovered that despite all her years in Vice and as part of the Major Case squad, there apparently were still some things that could cause her to blush with the heat of a thousand suns.

_F: Honestly? You. Nine inches deep in me(1). _

Eames flipped quickly to the footnotes, and discovered that this corresponded to the picture of Hoffman with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. She realised she was probably pulling the exact same face herself, and decided to get up and pour herself the rest of the wine, to give herself a break from reading. Seriously, did she need to read any more? She'd already got the message loud and clear, and it wasn't exactly unexpected. They'd obviously done a lot more than talk to each other over that weekend. Although, reflecting on Bobby's recent air of distraction, even wistfulness, it had perhaps been somewhat more than just a one night thing.

She wished she could meet this Sienna Tovitz for more than a few seconds, since anyone who had that much of an effect on her hardly-inexperienced partner was clearly no mere simpering female. That, and she got points from Eames for boldness and assertiveness. Evidently not a woman to hold back, or be overawed by the overall charming-Goren effect. She wondered again if she really needed to read any more…

She returned to the dining table, and looked longingly at the translation. Hoffman had spent a lot of time on it, after all. It would be rude to repay all that effort by not reading to the end. But then again, Bobby would be mortified if he found out she'd read it… but equally then again, he really should know better than to leave sensitive documents lying around where absolutely anyone could pick them up (even if they were in German, which hardly anyone in their office but he could read). Well, just one more sentence. She'd allow herself that.

She read on, and burst out laughing. Oh, that was such a typical reply for him…

_B: Nine inches? That's very precise. Did you measure it while I was asleep? (And, not that I am not flattered, but I think you may be exaggerating.)_

F: I acknowledge that this is an estimate based on data from previous experiences with the, ah, item under discussion. I will admit that I was not in a rational and dispassionate state of mind at the time that this data was collected. Possibly further gathering of data is required.

B: This may prove somewhat tricky given that we're here for another few hours… unfortunately. Otherwise I would be glad to assist in your… research. 

The next paragraph was laid out in the form of a list, and had a footnote number attached at the bottom. With the hypnotised fascination of someone observing a car-crash, Eames read to the end:

_F: You're a man interested in constructing theories, and you may therefore wish to be aware of the following facts:_

1. I'm wearing very high heels and a skirt,  
2. These are stockings not pantyhose,  
3. By observing the agenda, I notice that we break for coffee in five minutes,  
4. By observing several previous incidents, I can confidently state that, given the effect your physical presence has on me, five minutes after that, I will be in the bathroom coming so hard that I will probably have to stick my hand in my mouth to prevent a repeat of a certain embarrassing incident I am sure we both recall only too well (no Andrew around to run interference this time, I fear…)

I'd prefer not to be alone when this happens.

Your call.(2). 

She flipped through to the footnotes, and found that this footnote did indeed correspond to the little cartoon of Hoffman with his eyes popping out on stalks. As if on strings, her own eyes were drawn back to the transcript, and she read Bobby's reply:

_B: The thought occurs that there may be an obstacle in the way of this proposed experiment…_

F: They have tie-sides. 

The next part had been written with such force that the pen had nearly gone through the paper:

B: You _may wish to be aware of the following facts:  
1. Go out of this room, through the double doors straight ahead, down three flights, go right to the end of the corridor and through the door on the left, and turn left straight after that, and there's a small unisex bathroom there that no-one uses except the janitor, when he wants to read Sports Weekly in peace.  
2. The janitor does not start work for another two hours.  
3. I have a spare key to that bathroom.  
4. My hands are bigger than yours.  
5. Now would be an _extremely _good time to collect data._

F: He's coming to the end, we'd better look interested. I'll meet you in the bathroom in five.

B: HELL YES! 

She burst out laughing. Oh, Bobby… here the discussion between the two of them ended, and she dragged her imagination firmly away from what must have happened next. The next part was much shorter, and, she couldn't help noticing, had been written by both of them in a much looser and more relaxed hand.

_F: Well, that was…. Highly productive in terms of gathering data. If not in terms of my being able to stay awake. You know what I'm like when I've just… sated an appetite. Elbow me if I start snoring._

B: Do you think that any more research is indicated?

F: I have the next four days free for experiments… 

B: Prepare to be overwhelmed by data. 

No more followed this last, and Eames turned to the final page of footnotes, headed "Translator's Commentary - Concluding Remarks": 

"Detective Eames:

I hope this is of use to you, and would like to make the following points in conclusion:

1. This is by far the most interesting translation I've ever done for the NYPD,  
2. If the mystery we're trying to solve is that of why your partner has dark circles under his eyes and a general air of smugness, I may possibly have found the crucial evidence… glad to have been of assistance.  
3. If you find it, please arrange for delivery of cake to the James Grainger building, East 67th Street, for the attention of Marta Hoffman, with love from Fritz.

Thank you, my dear Detective Eames, and Marta and I hope to see you again soon.

Yours, Fritz Hoffman."

She grinned. Yes, the Mystery of the Distracted Detective had certainly been resolved, all right. She reshuffled the papers together, still grinning, and checked that the originals were still safe in her purse. As she checked, she suddenly came across a page that she'd overlooked before. It was folded up and tucked down the back of the plastic wallet, which was why she'd not seen it before.

It was a sketch of a young woman, done in Biro on lined notepaper. The redhead - Sienna Tovitz - was the woman she had met yesterday in One Police Plaza, she realised, studying the face closely. Well, that confirmed her suspicions. She studied the picture closely.

At first, it appeared to be simply a sketch by a man physically fascinated by a young woman. The way he'd drawn her, how he'd carefully sketched in her rounded hips and narrow waist, emphasised by the skirt-and-blouse combination she was wearing, high heels emphasising her legs, full, high breasts apparent though her blouse, which was unbuttoned just a little; if she looked closely, she could just see a tiny suggestion of lace against the bare skin of the young woman's chest. He'd given her glossy hair - well, that was accurate, she allowed - and if you looked closely at the skirt, you could see the button where her stockings fastened on.

But if you looked closely at the face, it was an unusual expression he'd given her, not the alluring smile of a temptress. No, there was something oddly familiar about that thoughtful expression, something that reminded her of someone they both knew well…

_Deakins?_

That was such an incongruous thought Alex stared at her wineglass for a few seconds, wondering how strong the wine was. But yes, if she looked carefully, there was something Deakins-like about the thoughtful expression on the woman's face, the slightly enigmatic smile. Look at it again, observe the thought in those eyes, the slight tension in her legs and arms, and you could see that she was weighing up what she'd just heard, about to stand up and declare what should be done. Considering the slightly humorous aspect to her expression, she could just imagine this young woman saying, to borrow one of Deakins' famous remarks, _Well, could you _find out for me, please?

Perhaps that sense of humour was what interested Bobby? Certainly you'd need a good sense of humour to spend any length of time with him and still be on speaking terms… they'd been together for over 24 hours on the surveillance operation, she remembered, and were evidently still on more than speaking terms… Her eyes flitted down the page, and saw that he'd written a caption beneath the sketch.

He'd written, simply _…poised…. _and yes, she could see what he was getting at. This was someone poised, both physically and mentally. Someone young, but not fresh-out-of-college young. Someone with some years' experience, about to take the next step, take on responsibility, spread the wings that had been developing over the past few years, leave behind childhood once and for all and confidently launch herself out into the next stage of her life.

And Alex Eames, who knew her partner very well, caught just an echo of his thoughts at the time of sketching this snapshot of his lover: _I don't want to be the one who screws that up._ She smiled, ruefully. Yes, that was like him, too. She sighed on her partner's behalf; this might not be love - not yet - but it might well be the early stages, if he was already thinking in terms of the future.

Still pondering what she'd just learned, Eames walked over to her apartment window and leaned her forehead against the glass. The view wasn't great, but if you stood at one end and turned your head slightly, you could just get a nice view of the street leading away into the distance, people shopping, walking, cycling, jogging… New York's lifeblood, with the sun setting over it. She sipped the last of her wine and contemplated the view, feeling, as she often did, like the city's protector, and also feeling a great surge of affection for her home city and its people.

Bobby was out there somewhere, she mused, entertaining his new girlfriend… she raised her glass in a silent toast to him, and smiled. She was glad he was happy, even if perhaps only for the moment, and reflected that perhaps it was time she made another effort to find herself a mate. She liked her solitude, but now and then it would be good to have a male presence by her side, to share evenings like these. Heck, if Bobby could do it, she sure as hell could too. She knew that no matter what, she'd always have his friendship and his presence in her life was something she wouldn't change for the world. She smiled again, finished her wine, and went to bed.


	5. Incriminating Evidence and Croissants

Four days later, Eames was in the office early, earlier than Bobby. She'd called him and left a message to say that she'd found the papers he'd been looking for, then carefully locked the original papers, including the sketch, in one of the drawers of his desk, and shredded the copies and Hoffman's translation. Sergeant Alvarez had been amused by Hoffman's request, and found two young rookies who were willing to call into bakeries when returning from patrol and research the availability of raspberry tarts. (They'd agreed to put it on expenses as "Translation Costs", although Eames personally would have liked to see the number-crunchers' faces on seeing "Raspberry Tart Expenses" on a claim sheet.)

She looked up, and smiled to see her partner's familiar shape looming over her desk. They exchanged pleasantries, and he dropped off a Starbucks cup and pastry bag on her desk, then sat down behind his own and began rearranging papers, fiddling with pens and generally settling himself back in. She opened the bag and found her favourite croissant, still warm, and the coffee cup scented promisingly of that new blend they'd started using that she especially liked, two shots and made with half-and-half milk, exactly how she liked it. She looked up and smiled, receiving a full-on charming Goren smile in reply. _Oh, SOMEONE's in a very good mood_.

"Bobby? I think I found those papers you were looking for - they're in the top drawer." She watched surreptitiously as he retrieved them from the drawer, and inwardly smirked to see the look of relief on his face, followed, she noticed, by a faint smug grin of recollection. Ah well, she was happy for him, if privately amused that even the great Detective Goren could occasionally be distracted by a female. She wondered if the young translator would be returning to New York in future, and made a mental note to keep an eye on future progress with the new Interpol division. He was doing the staring-off-into-the-distance thing again, although she couldn't help noticing that this time it was more wistful than distracted… then, as she watched, he shook his head and returned his attention firmly to the casefiles in front of him. Looked like she had her partner back firing on all cylinders again.

"So, Eames, this new case… homicide during a burglary?"

"Looks like, but I'm not so sure. I think only someone who knew the house well would be able to break in."

"Yeah, I think we need to speak to the family again, did you see the security systems they had there? Someone was paranoid; everything from infra-red sensors to broken glass on the windows."

"Yeah… they had the whole nine inches."

Bobby dropped the coffee cup he was holding all over the desk; luckily there was only about an inch left in the bottom. "I'm sorry? What did you say?"

"I said, the whole nine yards… geez, Bobby. Relax!"

FINIS

**Author's Notes**: I wanted to see if I could write a 'Sienna & Bobby' fic in which neither of them makes an appearance in person. I didn't quite manage that, but overall I was happy with the result. Plus, I thought it was time Alex Eames put in an appearance…

If you feel like a soundtrack, I was listening to 'Short Skirt, Long Jacket' for most of this fic, especially during Chapter Four (song by Cake, album _Comfort Eagle_).

**Author's Notes, part the second**: In reply to a question by email... Sienna's "estimate" does not reflect any special knowledge on my part about either Goren or VDO (sadly for me). And yes, nine inches is pretty damn big... hence Goren's comment that she was exaggerating a little and her reply that she wasn't exactly thinking straight at the time.  
She was originally going to say "eight inches", which would be slightly above what I'm reliably informed is the average size for most guys (5-7 inches; don't ask how I know this... being a fic writer leads you to do all kinds of weird research). Then, whilst I was thinking about how to end the fic, I overheard someone using the phrase "the whole nine yards" and thought, yup, there's my ending!


End file.
